


i followed fires (to the heart of the world)

by Jade_Sabre



Category: Dragon Age II, Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: F/F, F/M, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-31
Updated: 2013-07-31
Packaged: 2017-12-21 21:52:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 17,394
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/905366
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jade_Sabre/pseuds/Jade_Sabre
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Written for the 2013 Dragon Age Reverse Big Bang, for JanieJanine's fanmix A Circle in the Fire.  The events of DA:O and DAII as seen through the eyes of their various participants.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. hold my hand

**Author's Note:**

> This is my entry for the 2013 Dragon Age Reverse Big Bang, written for [JanieJanine](http://archiveofourown.org/users/janiejanine/pseuds/janiejanine)’s amazing fanmix [A Circle in the Fire](http://archiveofourown.org/works/905459%20), which [you can download here](http://www.sendspace.com/file/8qkrnd). I highly recommend listening and reading at the same time! It’s an awesome mix that let me write all my favorite things, and for that I am profoundly grateful. I am also grateful to my husband, who agreed to listen to the mix on repeat for three weeks, and to my dear beta Quark, for her speedy and yet incredibly insightful and helpful edits.

__  


* * *

_long way down_

The world will burn; the kindling's been laid, and the spark is even now being lit, a flame carried to its eventual fuel, waiting for the breath of life to sweep it across the land until no one remembers when or why or how it began, or how it might end; they will simply know that it _is_ , and salvation is not.

But there will be a beginning, and perhaps it begins here, or perhaps it has already begun; Morrigan used to worry about such things, but the twin trials of pregnancy and escape have lately occupied her mind to the exclusion of all else. In the earlier days it was simple enough to shift into a wolf or a bear and race across the countryside, but the quickening has come and she does not know what effect shifting might have on the suddenly living, suddenly _real_ soul inside her. Flemeth's Grimoire is almost capriciously silent on the subject, laughing at the daughter as she sweats her way over mountains and across the plains. Morrigan strongly suspects her mother spent _her_ pregnancies safely squirreled away in the Wilds, tending only to herself and her needs, not trying to put as much distance between herself and everything she knew—as if there are places Flemeth does not know. Even from beyond the grave Morrigan feels her mother's eyes upon her, and though she would never admit it the fear pushes her steps.

But even deathless mothers must rest, as Morrigan's back and swelling feet remind her, and though she could use her magic to see on this moonless night she chooses instead to stop beside the first small brook she finds, dipping her feet in the cool water after she settles on the ground. The forest here is sparse, the stars easily twinkling amidst leaves stirred by errant creatures leaping unseen through the trees. She pays them no mind, nor does she hear the incessant chorus of crickets and frogs resuming after her rude interruption; the babe, once lulled to sleep by her travels, is awake, and she thinks its kicks and stirrings are stronger today than they were yesterday. An inane observation, she chides herself, but one of her hands is resting on her belly, drumming lightly in response.

She does not know where she is going, though she thinks she knows where she is: somewhere just beyond the Dales, not so far from Ferelden as she would like to be. She spent the last days ignoring the marching soldiers on either side of her wagon, poring over the hero of the River Dane's maps, ignoring his steady gaze even as he walked behind her, wary but willing to help her keep her promise. Promises—she'd been traveling slowly as she did her best to avoid the Orlesian settlements scattered across the Dales, each one a promise that oaths broken would not be remade, and why should hers be any different?

Because Mahariel had asked, of course.

Mahariel would like the Dales, she thinks, an utterly simple idea that nevertheless wards off the chill of the encroaching evening. She shakes off the warmth and reminds herself that she prefers being alone; she prefers the solitude and familiarity of the forest, far from political or religious entanglements. (So do the Dalish, and yet they are clan.) She prefers freedom, and seeking it anywhere other than within herself will only serve to lose it. She needs not the light of the campfire nor the quiet murmurs of conversation shared around it; she has her magic and her wits, and those have more than served her in the past. She draws her feet out of the water and rubs her belly, and the baby kicks to remind her that she is not truly alone—may never be truly alone again.

And the baby is of course not simply a baby—and far from withdrawing from political or religious entanglements, she has cast herself squarely in the middle of whatever storms the coming years will bring. And no matter how they treat her child—and how will they treat her child?—she doubts any of them will be kind to its mother.

Morrigan closes her eyes as the child kicks again, and she wishes for her friend.

 

  

  **-.-.-**

  

_away, i'll go_

They say the Warden followed a Witch of the Wilds through a mirror.

They don't know the Warden.

The Warden had seen what the mirror did.

Mahariel does not want to be a Warden. When Duncan stands before her, steel-plated armor glittering more fiercely than anything she's seen before, blinding her as he says it is the _only_ way—when her Keeper says she must leave her clan, no words of comfort or promises of kinship save her from the feeling that in the space of a few hours they have killed her, dead to the clan as surely as her father and her mother and—

She does not say goodbye. The dead rarely do.

And she may well die, she thinks; she stands sweating and shivering as Daveth convulses to the ground, seeing her future in the pinkish foam from his mouth as the flickering torchlight glints off Jory's bracers and wavers in his blood. But she does not die—would she know if she were dead, without Falon'Din to guide her way? —no, she lives, and lives again when so many shemlen die upon the battlefield, Duncan and a king but not a lord, and again when a dragon snatches her from the claws of so many darkspawn.

The dragon is Asha'bellanar. She thinks she would rather be dead than chosen by such a power, let alone chosen to _lead_ , but what she thinks has little bearing on what she must do.

And everywhere she goes she is Dalish, the vallaslin announcing her long before her lilting accent or odd turns of speech—asking Alistair how far it is to Redcliffe as the halla runs is as fruitless as wishing for someone to call her lethallan once more, though her hound seems to understand when she asks him to guard her dreams from Fen'Harel. And everywhere she goes she learns how the shemlen see her people, a backwater race clinging to inventions where memory had failed them, eschewing metalwork and the finer trappings of civilization so as to hide their failures. She disagrees, vehemently, though she knows that while her people claim to prefer the comfort and intimacy they share with the woods, in truth they simply cannot afford to settle long enough to build a community. Even the Arlathvhen, though celebrated as a free gathering, is a small circle of aravels, guarded closely from the shadows just beyond the dancing flames. Arlathan had been a city like Denerim, bustling, alive, _walled_ , as powerful and established as Orzammar; her people lived and walked together as neighbors, not simply distant clans; they had had the finest craftings, not just of wood and stone, but metal and magic; and perhaps Arlathan had had its alienage, its Dust Town; but these, like so many things, are lost.

As Tamlen is lost. As she, in her own way, is lost.

Sometimes in her travels she understands Merrill, as much as the Keeper sometimes disagreed with her. The more she sees of the world, the plight of the poor, the great equalizer of the Blight, the more she yearns to know her people's place. If the Blight is a human sin, can an elf hope to be its cure?

And yet she is not Dalish, for she is clanless and dying a slow death from the poison she carries, the Wardens existing in a shadowy place between life and its ending, between the living races and their twisted counterparts. The followers she gathers are held together by a tenuous belief that together they can accomplish more, though what they hope to achieve is a clouded mystery, as shifting and shrouded as the Fade to its dreamers. In all her life as a hunter she has never seen brutality as the darkspawn unleash; as close as she was to Merrill, she never saw magic used as the humans use it, caged and rotting from within. She longs to step away from the fires, to clear away the smoke and breathe untainted air; but even the heart within her chest is tainted, and she will never be free.

 

 

**-.-.-**

 

_i want more_

Within his cage, he loves.

Much time passes—strange and yet not-strange, for time is its own kind of change, and Desire understands change, but to quantify it is something else entirely—before Desire realizes this truth. It offers much before it understands what he wants, for he is not the same as the others it has known. It is—and how strange, the sayings of men—"an old hand" at this; the one called Uldred has drawn it forth before, singing siren songs of promised flesh in exchange for power. And it has granted that power, for power is as fleeting as feeling, a fair trade of ability for the taste of a sweet breath of air. Uldred has thanked Desire each time, both for the power and for the eradication of his rivals, but Desire cares little for mortals who are gone, for the soul of a dead mortal is as homeless as a spirit of the Fade. So Desire has cultivated its garden, fertilized with imagined families and wealth and omnipotence, content to graze from its shifting kingdom, only venturing beyond to claim the last moments of life before a dream-drained soul abandons its abode. The mortal world is a trap, after all, as elegantly crafted as any of its own empty promises—but the mortal world is _real_ , and therein lies the danger.

But this is different; Uldred has called not just upon Desire, but upon all the sins he knows, and he has released them into the mortal world without instruction, leaving them to whatever mortals they find within the curving stone. _Curved_ stone, a whimsy Desire enjoys, a whimsy it will add to its garden when it returns, for it intends to return. Desire understands _want_ , has traded in wants and lives since it first encountered a dreamer a timeless age ago, knows better than to trade its wants for death. And so it watches as the others set upon the dreamers first, fighting for their share of the easiest prey. But those first possessions only to fall to the guards' blades until those with no one to possess turn against the guards, mindlessly slaughtering until they sound the retreat, until they close the large stone doors and leave the living to their fate. The scent of blood brings more of its kind into the mortal world—for here the Veil has no meaning, not as Uldred tears it down for—Desire does not know his purpose; another has already preyed upon his mind, and Pride is possessive. The dreamers and the guards that are left desire only death, so Desire merely follows, up and up and up in circles as twisted as Fade-trodden paths, until it comes upon a guard who did not flee, who stands waiting for death with a sword in his hand, striking forth even as the one who is-was Uldred laughs and snares him.

"You may have him," the one who is-was says, and Desire stays to inspect its find.

It offers him death, but though it sees within his mind the death of all his friends he does not want it; and so it offers him life, a life constructed from memories of the dead, but somehow he understands the deception—denies the offering—and he rejects that as well. Desire is not pleased; Desire is confused; does the mortal _want_ this life? He does not let it smell the blood, though it sees how he breathes to avoid it; he does not let it hear the screams as he does, yet it watches him plug his ears. Desire does not understand why he would reject the alternatives.

And so it searches deeper, plumbing the depths of his mind even as he screams in protest; it pays no mind to the screams, as they always quiet once they receive their wish. It finds loneliness, and offers friends—new friends, cobbled together from the dead but changed enough to hide their origins—or not, as he refuses to join in their harvest games. He's never been to a harvest, and so it makes him believe he has spent his life in rhythm of the seasons, but even then he will not play. It offers him command, jurisdiction over the Tower, nay, the Realm, gives him dreamers to slaughter (for _oh_ , does he wish them dead, yet he remembers that they are already gone), places the blade in his hand so that he may slay Uldred in one fell swoop—but then he remembers his weaknesses, and drops the sword, and turns his back on his foe.

"He spares you, this time," Desire says. "You ought not turn your back on him again."

"I don't care," he says, "they're not real," _and she's already gone_.

And _this_ is what he hid behind the screaming, behind the anger and the exhaustion and the indomitable will to live, hid so well that Desire is not sure he fully knows the depths of his need—but it will show him, oh yes, and he will understand.

The first vision catches him by surprise, and it is pleased, for he is shocked to see her walking towards him, a rare spring flower in her hair, wearing a smile it does not understand but gives him freely; he takes her hands, and in that touch Desire finally _finally_ tastes him, raw _relief_ before the horror of its touch appears in his mind, before he realizes what he has lost in dropping her hands. He will want more, and Desire will give it, for his resistance is fueled by such a passion for life, for a life with this girl, that Desire will give him whatever he wishes, so long as it may know _that_.

It forgets about the others, forgets about time and change, as it constructs itself into _her_ , she, coming to him again and again in every guise his memory provides. He arms himself in gauntlets against the brushings of her fingertips but she coaxes them off, and while she is congratulating herself for her cleverness he catches her in his arms and—everything is relief, pleasure, worship, adoration, long-held silence and grateful acceptance, nay, _joy_ , and _this_ is what he wants and this is what she will give him a thousand times, a hundred thousand times for ages and ages to come if only he will return the gift.

But even in the reciprocation he is fading, and the weakness spreads throughout him even as he struggles to push her away, and she is _hurt_ , for she wants nothing more than to make him her own.

"It will never work," he says, panting, desperate, pleading, struggling to see her and not-her, "you'll kill me."

"No," she says, though they both know the truth, and as he shakes his head she finds she does not care; she _loves_ him, and hers he shall be.

 

 

**-.-.-**

 

_we were both the same_

The song is a love song. The Wardens don't understand—can't hear the sweet seductive tones, or else they would follow too. The alternative is inconceivable. The song is beautiful. The song is love. And so they follow the song, marching from the cool dark safety of their nests, marching up the long stone roads, losing some of their members to unseen assailants but never ceasing, their Mothers adding ever more to the chorus that surges from below the ground onto the soft needled surface dirt, into the distant clouded surface light, across the dying surface lands.

Tamlen hates them all.

He is barely Tamlen; he is the song, and he follows the song, for he was lost, lost until he heard its call, lost in unfamiliar woods of rock and no matter how he searched he could not find clan. He seeks clan—he follows the song. He _wants_ clan; the shambling army speaks tongues he understands against his will, cries for slaughter the likes of which he cannot imagine even as they tempt him with shemlen, lost little shemlen, trespassing shemlen, offering to sate his hatred with their blood—

—but _she_ stayed his hand, and so he flees when he ought to fight, cries for unseen mountains or familiar forests, for the _hunt_ , clean and simple, untainted, for the exchange of life that all must undergo (not the ancestors; the shemlen robbed us of our life, we have been dying for so long—)

(— _peace_ , lethallin—)

but blood is hot in his mouth, ragged nails torn clean off in the rending of flesh, claws taking their place—

and Tamlen retreats, and tries to sing the Keeper's songs, to tell Paivel's tales, prays for the protection of Creators even as his ears fill with laughter, the joyless thrill of insatiable war, and Fen'Harel laughs as he feeds on the flesh of his kin (not his kin—not his clan—the Keeper is not here, and neither is she). He calls on Fenarel's caution, curses Merrill's curiosity, strives for Mahariel's strength, for the sweet sound of her voice ( _lethallin, lethallin_ ) even as the song threatens to drown them all out.

 _The forest is thick for the trees_ (the dead) _but the hidden pool_ (sticky with blood) _is deep and clear and she laughs, Watch me! and dives from the tallest tree with barely a splash, a thin graceful line beneath the rippling surface, and he watches her rise from the water, formed from the water, dripping and shining and inviting him to swim as they have always swum to rest from the heat of the hunt; the rustling of a deer barely distracts him from the sight, but she has already reached for her bow and claimed the kill, an arrow through the eye, bloodless, painless. And the heat from the fire by which they dry their clothes as their catch roasts is nothing to the pounding in his chest as she laughs at one of his cousin's jokes, as Ashalle combs out her hair and Merrill weaves daisy chains to celebrate their kill. Neither has changed_ , his skin crackling and burnt beyond repair, his teeth grinding and shifting in his skull as he howls the song with the rest of them, _and yet it is as if he has never seen her before_.

He should never have taken his eyes off her, should never have looked—and if he looked now, what would he see? Monster, betrayer, failure; he cannot let her see him like this; he cannot stop looking. The song seeks her too, for the Wardens carry their blood, belong to the brood, hear the song; they only need to learn to sing, to love the song that loves them with the all-consuming all-changing love that desires nothing more than to bring all to itself.

The song is ceaseless, waking and sleeping, and Mahariel is but a dream in a mind that no longer dreams, cast out by shemlen so long ago, a dream of a love that simply belongs to the song. And the longer he marches, shredding his way through his foes, the longer he listens, and the deeper in love he falls.

_walk where I bid you,_  
 _stand where I have scorched the earth,_  
 _sing the words I have taught you,_  
 _and you shall rest in the warmest places,_  
 _in the bosom of the earth,_

_my beloved,_

_my blessed,_

_my pride_.

 

 

**-.-.-**

 

_to the river of souls_

Of course Mahariel does not follow through the mirror. Morrigan does not wish it, and it is unlikely that the mirror would allow for two to pass; one was difficult enough. It had been the project of her son's babyhood, and had taught her much, but she made out the danger to be greater than it was; she could not, at this time, attempt anything that would seriously risk her health. Besides, the Warden was not a mage and thus would have gained little from the journey; she hoped that pointing her in Flemeth's direction would be enough to guard against the coming storm, to secure the hatches, though she does not know what her friend could hope to achieve against a foe she's already killed.

For Flemeth lives; not that she's approached Morrigan directly, no, but her daughter had felt her return as one felt a sudden warm breath in an empty dark cave, a puff of air crawling down her neck. She has spent countless hours pouring through the Grimoire, through what texts she can acquire on her short travels, yet none have clarified how such a thing may be done, at least not for a mortal. Mortal souls are whole, their essence self-contained; nothing she learns changes that fact. If she learns anything, it is that Flemeth is _not_ mortal to a degree as yet unsuspected, but this provides no clues as to what she might desire—or how she might be stopped. Of one thing Morrigan is sure: Flemeth is no mere spirit; she has too many facets to be a creature purely of the Fade.

She learns these truths by candlelight, and her reading is not as studious as she would prefer, for she constantly halts to keep the baby from stumbling into the table or the fireplace or the stacks of books she keeps at hand. Or else he is crying with exhaustion but refusing to sleep, or tugging at her skirt to ask permission, with words that are half-language and half-babble, to eat the bug he has found, or any number of minor distractions that are, in his eyes, the only events worth notice.

They are secret and safe, at least until Flemeth turns her invisible eye on them, yet the urgency this inspires fades behind the babe's insistence that she play peek-a-boo with him _one more time_ , his laughter sweet and light. So long as his belly is full and his soiled garments changed, he smiles freely, and Morrigan wonders where he learned it, for it has nothing of his grandmother, and she only saw his father grin grimly once, at the end of a long battle. He loves to look at himself in the mirror, to look at her next to him; he loves to look at _her_ , to touch her nose and tug her hair, to catch his clumsy fingers in her lip. He loves to follow her around their tiny house and provide unintelligible commentary on her every action, to put his arms up whenever she turns around in the hopes that she will finally pick him up. His need exhausts her and yet he _needs_ her; he is the unknowing pivot upon which the world blindly turns, and yet he is a babe and she is his mother.

And he loves her. Granted, he knows of nothing and no one else, and perhaps his love is less for the lack of choice; but it is a pure love, an unfettered, sweet love, and Morrigan, whom destiny and decision and decades of manipulation have bound to this child, who has no choice but to raise him or see the world burn—

Morrigan loves her son, the sticky-fingered nuisance who kicks in his sleep; the innocent, she called him, and there is nothing she will not do to protect his untainted soul.

And so she stays up long after she has put him to bed to read in the uninterrupted candlelight, searching for answers, trying to plan, making notes for spells to try during his naps, keeping her eye on the lines of power and politics that flow throughout the countries, creating lists of potential allies and threats. She learns the identity of those who returned her mother—Mahariel's clan, and she wonders what the Warden will do to correct the mistake of her people—and she watches them; an ally of Flemeth's is a threat to her son, and she will suffer none.

The world will burn; but the only flame for now is the candle shining on her son's dark hair as she watches him sleep, deep and easy, trusting her to keep him safe.


	2. baby it's a long way down

_at least that bird can sing_

The boat to Kirkwall is small and cramped, and more crowded than Hawke had expected; the darkspawn have not spread far beyond Lothering, and there are still corners of Ferelden that haven't heard of Ostagar. She is surprised that so many have taken the threat seriously; perhaps some have simply chosen to take their poverty elsewhere, to gamble on the supposed riches of stone walls over their meager farms. Her family is no different, though she doubts the estate her mother imagines awaits them; and if it does, she can hardly imagine that it would happily accept a family of apostates.

A family with _one_ apostate.

It is Carver's turn to sit with Mother in the dark, dank hold, and Hawke gladly unfolds her limbs when she sees her brother coming towards them, half-bent and stepping carefully to avoid errant bodies. "It's still raining," he informs her, his dark hair dripping against his forehead.

"A shame," she says. "We could use some sunshine."

Her mother emits a low moan and turns on her side; Carver gives his sister a dark look as she passes, and she shrugs, his animosity nothing new. She manages not to step on anyone before reaching the hatch to the deck, which she pushes against until it squeaks open, the wood swollen with water. The deck is slippery, and she slides her way past barefoot sailors to the railing, the cold rain a relief after the sweltering steam of so many bodies packed together. The sea is a choppy green, the sky a grey mist all around; she misses Bethany too, of course, wishing for her sardonic sweetness to lighten Mother's mood, to lift the chip off Carver's shoulder. She does not know what her sister could do for her, the emptiness too stark and sudden to understand what has been lost. If Bethany were here, they would still be on the run, Aveline's husband would still be dead, and they'd still be beholden to the Witch of the Wilds; they would still have nothing but trouble to their name. But they'd have Bethany's smile too; and while they might find a home and love and pay their debts and gain the wealth their mother claims, they will never see that smile again.

Of course Father is also gone, and never coming back, as are the few friends they had in Lothering. Ferelden itself may burn in their absence; they have set their course. They cannot look back.

"Land ho!" comes the cry, though Hawke sees only shadows; she returns below decks to rouse her mother, and though Carver glares as if the effort is too much, Aveline's gentle, steady hand brings Leandra with the rest of the refugees to see their new home. Hawke watches her mother's eyes soften, weary and relieved, as the shadows coalesce into shapes; she looks, and sees only the chains.

They dock, and the city greets them with the blood of their countrymen spilled on their hands; Hawke hides her magic as her father taught, letting Carver take the kills but robbing him of the opportunity to speak for the family, and his resentment smolders between her shoulders as she asks for Gamlen. Bethany would deflect him with teasing; Mother, wringing her hands and worrying, only fuels his desire to lead, and his bickering and Hawke's terse replies fill the next three days, tempered only by Aveline's snappish requests for silence. Mother hums Bethany's lullabies as she strokes her elder daughter's hair, and Hawke cannot help but wonder, as her mother's tears dampen her skin, if her mother would mourn so much for her. She is not her mother's sunshine; she is her father's steel.

Nowhere is this more apparent than in her reaction to Gamlen, pure fury at the sight of her mother's last hopes crumbling into so much dust for the whims of one man's lusts. He is not family, not the way Father taught it, _I for you and you for me_ , cannot be trusted with Hawke's secrets though he is pleased to barter her life. She takes the mercenaries' job and murders a man to see her mother in a house, any house, though nothing lifts the sadness from her mother's eyes; she lets her brother tag along but keeps him safe, deflecting the worst blows, hiding the seedier contracts. She lets him believe she doesn't think he's strong enough to handle them, knowing that Bethany would never forgive her if her twin lost the innocence he claims to have never had. Aveline volunteers to risk her life as well, and Hawke allows her, for friend though she is family she is not, and Hawke does not have to worry if she will be harmed. Bethany would have prayed to the Maker for help; Hawke trusts in her magic, and leaves the rest in the dust.

For Bethany is gone, and Father is gone, and his eldest has taken his name as her shield against the world; she is Hawke, now, and she must guard the rest.

 

 

**-.-.-**

 

_what coldness winter brings_

Hawke doesn't like Anders. She doesn't _dis_ like him, but he gives her pause; she has little experience with non-Hawke mages, and her first impressions are a bit worrisome. Merrill is obsessed with a mirror her Keeper calls too dangerous to have among their clan, and Anders is host to a spirit, no matter how noble. But he looks to her as the paragon of all a free mage can be, and while she's not sure she agrees—this is all she's ever known—she has her family to think of, and his healing abilities are desperately useful. So she brings him along, half-listening to him as he bickers with everyone else, snatches of _mages_ and _justice_ and _no you're the crazy one_ , and tries to ignore the way he watches her walk.

She takes him to the Deep Roads, for he claims familiarity with them, and she brings Carver, against her mother's protestations. Mother doesn't want her to take him, but she wants to give him a chance to prove himself, or at least show him how dangerous the world can be—but she will be there, and she will keep him safe. Except she doesn't, because the world is yet stronger than she, and it is only luck—only the desperate usefulness of a healer—that keeps her from losing her brother forever.

She tries to explain this to her mother, tries to explain that Carver is better off where he is—fighting for something, rather than glowering sullenly and practicing his swordplay in their cramped quarters long after everyone else in the house is abed—but to Mother he is gone, the Hawke family whittled down to two, and his sister cannot argue without the sight of her brother disappearing into the deep, endless dark haunting her words. But without Anders, Carver would be lying dead in a cavern somewhere ("And who's to say he isn't now?" her mother cries, but there is no changing Hawke's decision, nor the cruelty of the darkspawn taint), and so for that, she at least owes him her respect.

Her respect changes him. She has difficulty pinpointing it until she mentions it off-handedly in a conversation in the Hanged Man; Isabela laughs and says, "That's just his lust for you, pet," her hand brushing Hawke's in that incautious intentional way that lights Hawke's nerves like a miscast spell, dangerous and powerful and tantalizingly illicit. Later she will follow Isabela behind the ale barrels and lose her worries in the pirate's own lust, in the sweet summer heat of plundered kisses, shared freely and without care—she thinks; but alone in the vast darkness of her room, her hound at the foot of her spacious bed, she will not be so sure, as the weight of the city settles again around her shoulders and the problem of Anders returns to her mind.

His bickering grows more fevered, and she finds herself avoiding Fenris's company to keep it from becoming violent (the elf's outright abhorrence has cooled to a mutual cordial dislike; he does not trust Hawke not to become Danarius, while she has little use for one who cannot accept her word on the subject). Her other companions—all but Merrill, whose staunch stubborn innocence is her saving grace even as it is her downfall—refuse to respond to his bait, and she worries when he retreats to whatever conversations occur in the confines of his mind. But she keeps him in line, teasing him as Bethany teased Carver to lift the frown from his face, though confusion replaces it—and longing, and she will take it if it takes his mind from his crusade. She kisses Isabela to take her mind from hers.

And then in the secret tunnels in Kirkwall's depths he nearly kills a fellow mage, Justice bursting from his skin, painful and glorious, untamed, deadly, hot to the touch as Hawke pulls him away and calls to Anders, if there is an Anders—if Anders is not Justice, and the glow fades from his eyes and the man—the abomination—slumps against her, warm and heavy, until he realizes what he has done and runs from her.

She follows.

She has a decision to make, she realizes, watching him read Ser Alrick's papers, his head bent, his voice cautious and hopeful. He is a man, and there is a chance he may understand that the Circle—not the best solution, certainly, but _a_ solution, and with the blood mages they've met she thinks a necessary one—does not need to be destroyed, merely reformed; but there is a demon inside him, and none of the other abominations they've faced have proven able to resist the transformation. That Anders has resisted so long suggests the unity he shares with Justice, and yet—he has doubts, and he did _not_ kill the mage girl—and he saved her brother's life.

He tells her he is a monster, and she keeps him sane. She has no choice. If this will tether Justice, then so be it. He kisses her, hard and desperate and devouring, and she returns his kiss, leads him to her bed, holds him by her side as he shivers in his sleep. He asks to live with her, and she allows it, though as the years go by she thinks she has merely traded one ghost for another, watching as he travels to and from Darktown, carefully keeping tabs on the tunnels he travels the most. She reads every draft of every manifesto, and burns most of them with the trash while he's away; she brings him with her wherever she goes, interrupting his schemes with her own schedule, never allowing him _time_. She learns his healing magic, reads every glint of light in his eyes, and tells him, constantly, that he can control it, the unspoken alternative louder than their arguments—but always, always, she soothes him with a kiss, and he settles against her and calls her his. She keeps him sane, he says, though his definition of sane slips farther into madness with every passing day.

But she is the Champion; she can control him, so long as she controls his heart. She has given hers to him; at least, she no longer has one of her own. She kisses him, to keep him closer, within her dagger's reach.

She kisses him. There is no heat.

 

 

**-.-.-**

 

_for you_

The Arishok stands before her, twice her height, three times her width, one of his massive arms as big as she is, the wicked, jagged, sword in his hands almost as large. The court of Kirkwall—the city she has been called to defend, the only home she has left, what she would die to protect—gather around, horrified, their lives hanging like the drop of blood dangling from the edge of the sword. The viscount's head lies at her feet, his twisted coronet nearby, thorns having drawn blood from his forehead—the least of his worries—his eyes as blank and blind as his son's, his line ended, death a welcome respite from the loneliness of being the last of his kin. Isabela clutches the great book to her chest, her eyes as scared as she's ever seen them, Aveline a tense second away from charging the qunari herself; even Fenris holds his blade ready; but she stands before the Arishok alone, and the fury in his normally solemn, sullen face—no sunshine to lift this cloud—sets her trembling, and she turns and runs home.

"Hush, darling," Leandra says as Hawke bursts through the front door, sobbing, clutching her mother's skirts as her mother strokes her hair while their mabari whines before the fireplace. "Hush, dear. Tell Mother what's wrong."

Hawke chokes out the story—Petrice's treachery, Isabela's idiocy (her flight or her return, she's not sure), the death of the viscount, everyone looking to _her_ —and her mother smoothes her hair away from her tear-stained face, slowly sinking to the floor and gathering her into her lap, and cradled in her mother's arms, Hawke feels her fear begin to fade.

(She hadn't been afraid. She'd been angry.)

"Now," her mother says, "what's this nonsense about the Arishok trying to kill you? I thought you'd earned his respect."

Hawke had too—Hawke had rather liked him, and quietly sympathized with his desire to right the world, though his methods were so very wrong—and the senselessness of his death clashes with the strength of his convictions—she rests her head against her mother's chest and sniffles. "Well," her mother says at last, "it sounds to me as if you have no choice but to face him."

"But he's so strong," Hawke says.

"And you are too," her mother exclaims, sitting her up straight and tipping up her chin until her daughter looks directly into her eyes, "if I'm not mistaken, or did someone replace my daughter while I wasn't looking?"

Hawke scrubs at her runny nose and says, "But what if my magic isn't enough?"

"Listen to me," her mother says, her look intent. "You have your father's name and your father's magic, which is plenty powerful enough, but you have your mother's strength, and a mother's strength in her children can never be matched. Do you understand?"

Hawke isn't sure she believes this—her mother is a sad, lonely old woman, misunderstanding her daughter at every turn, failing to see the woman she's become, worrying every time she leaves the house, mourning her favorites, missing her husband. Hawke hasn't sat in her mother's lap in years—they haven't had a proper conversation beyond what crosses the dinner table in weeks, if not months—and she certainly doesn't need comforting from a woman who's never fought a demon. Though as she thinks it she wonders if it's true; her mother is, after all, a woman who ran away from riches to marry an apostate and raise his mageling children, guarding her house from threats both without and within, putting out countless fires in the quest to keep both their secrets and their peace.

Perhaps they have more in common than she thinks.

She looks up, smiling, to tell her mother so, to ask about her and Father—but Mother's face is wrong, suddenly, the eyes white and unseeing, the skin grey, and Mother's hands are the wrong hands, stitched to the wrong arms at the wrist, and she is cold, cold and slick, and her breath is fetid and foul as she reaches to touch Hawke's face, whispering, "My little girl has grown up to be _so_ strong…"

Hawke screams, and screams, and screams; a little girl, crying for her mother.

**-.-**

"Mother," says the little voice, "Mother, Mother, Mother," shaking her until she has blinked the last of the Fade from her sleep, and she turns on her side to see her son, hawk eyes wide with concern. "Mother," he says, "crying."

Morrigan puts the back of her hand to her eyes, is alarmed to discover that he speaks the truth; she scrubs her eyes and sits up and says, "'Tis nothing. Go back to sleep."

He doesn't believe her, his skepticism poorly disguising his concern, and she sighs. Bedtime has become enough of a chore—he is old enough to voice his opinion, and often his opinion is whatever will directly contradict her own—without her waking the boy with her own concerns. "Yes?" she says, when it becomes clear he will not return to the little bed next to hers.

"What's wrong?" he asks.

She sighs again, taking a moment to study his face, still round as a babe's, dark hair falling into his eyes, eyes that never miss a single detail, though she knows not if those are his powers or simply his single-minded determination to protect her—a fascinating instinct, though troubling, as she is not sure where he learned it. If he is aware of what—of _who_ he is, he has given no sign, and if he is still a simple child she has no desire to burden him with her dreams. She sees it almost nightly, now, the world burning, and burning, turning over upon itself, implications of spells more powerful than she knows, than anyone knows. More than that, these are not the conjurations of demons of fear; these are _their_ nightmares, as the Fade shifts beyond their control. She wouldn't be surprised if Flemeth were behind it, somehow subtly reorganizing the many kingdoms to suit whatever purposes she has; and she has heard tale that there are true Dreamers in Tevinter, and she does not yet know their allegiance. Too many unknowns, and too many obligations for her to investigate them all; her primary charge is here, and she brushes her son's cheek.

"Merely a dream," she says, "a Fade demon having his fun, nothing more."

Her son stares at her, unmoved, her son whose dreams are a mystery she longs to untangle. He shows no signs of magic, of power, of understanding her talk of spirits and dreams. She does not yet know what that might mean. She avoids the answers.

"All right?" he says.

"All right," she says, then firmly, preempting any argument, "now, bed."

"All right," he says, and promptly snuggles beneath her blanket before she can protest. She sighs—a mother's life might, she thinks, be measured in sighs—and tucks it around him, waiting until his breathing evens out before turning on her back and closing her eyes.

She does not fear the world's ending. Her nightmares, in the deepest, darkest parts of the Fade, the cruelest demon's imagination, are her son's voice, calling for her, far beyond his reach, beyond the hope of answering; endless, lost cries of _Mother_ , waiting for a response that will not come.

She will not let that happen. "I'm here," she whispers, "here," and in a breath she is asleep.

 

 

**-.-.-**

 

_like a greedy hungry beast_

His wife never has the chance to be a mother; their love is not allowed, and a child would reveal their secret to the world. And so they nourish their love with stolen kisses and whispered plans, building a home and a family out of so many clouds.

"Together," she'd whisper, brushing her delicate fingers over his features.

"Now," he'd say.

"Soon," she'd counter; she feared her family's reaction. "Patience, my love," and he would kiss the smooth skin of her arms, hoping to change her mind, "promise me you'll wait."

He promised, but he dreamed of another way, a faster way, a kind spirit offering its power to feed their love in exchange for the taste of a kiss, a simple bargain, easily made. And so the next time she visits, waiting for the templar guard to change before slipping unseen into his room, he closes the door and draws her close, kissing her sweet neck as she giggles and pretends to push him away.

"My love," he says, drawing away to memorize her face, imagining its joyful expression when they are free, "do you trust me?"

"Of course," she says, her smile wide, her eyes searching his face, confused. "My love, my father—"

But he does not wait to hear what her father has said or done; he draws the jagged shard of glass he smuggled into his room and cuts, a long thin line of red down her smooth pale arm. She gasps in shock—not pain, for he would never cause her pain—and says, "My love?"

"Just a moment," he says, a moment to pay his debt, and then they shall be flown away, safe to continue their life in peace—just a moment, as he presses his lips to hers.

He feels the magic coursing through his veins, pouring into her as she deepens the kiss, wraps her arms around his neck and digs her hand into his hair, pulling him closer—"My love," he breathes, surprised and aroused, pressing into her until a sharp spike of pain at the back of his head jerks him away; he feels a warm wetness running down his neck, blinks back tears as he looks at his love—

The spirit was unkind, and its violet gaze mocks him through the eyes of his love as she licks blood from her claws. "My love," it says, but the voice is wrong, _wrong_ , and he reaches out with his magic to cleanse, to purge, to _save_ —

The templars find him, kneeling on the floor with his wife in his arms, sobbing, shaking the little breath that remained to mock him from her lungs, kissing her again, and again—they drag him, screaming, to the dungeon, and they say he shall be dead come morning, and he does not care. He sleeps without dreaming, and while he sleeps, the Circle burns; Grace, of all people, rescues him, casting a spell to unlock all the cell doors and calling for them to escape. He follows her to the burning courtyard, stops dead in the place where he always meets his love, and waits for her to come. Grace calls him for to come, but he waits, and she abandons him. No matter. His love will come.

"I am here," she says, but when he looks there are only burning trees. "I am here," she says again, her voice curling around his shoulders, whispering in his ear. "I am here," she says.

"I cannot see you," he complains, turning his head to follow the sound of her, hardly noticing as she leads him around the flames.

"No," she agrees, "but you will again. You must gather the pieces. I will show you."

"Anything," he says, "anything, my love."

"Then come with me," she says, and, unseen, they vanish into the night.

**-.-**

Grace loses Decimus to an upstart refugee, one of their own kind, a mage who cannot possibly understand the power she rejects; alone in her cell in the Gallows she cries bitter tears, careful not to soak her lover's notes hidden within her robes. When the templars interrogate her she is docile as a dormouse—sometimes Decimus liked to play master, and sometimes she liked to let him—and so they release her to her room, where she unfolds the tattered papers, smoothing them flat and studying them by the light of a wisp. Her lover's voice rises from the pages, his warm scarred hands covering hers as she traces runes, his mouth breathing incantations onto the skin of her belly as she arches her back into him, repeating his words in a whisper. She escapes into the mind of him, shedding the stone and the water that imprisons her as easily as her robes, opening her thoughts to his, consuming all that he offers.

And then one day a templar hears her moaning, and burns her notes. No matter—they are carved on her heart—but she abandons her room seeking vengeance all the same—and sees Hawke, standing in the courtyard, unmistakable despite the years that have passed. In that moment, a thought forms: she can do what Decimus could not.

And why not? She knows all he knew, and lives to know more; she can carry his quest, remembering his name and surpassing it in one fell swoop; and Hawke will die, and freedom will be hers.

She seeks Alain, learns of the templars who seek to cast Orsino from his tower and Meredith from her throne, and blends with them, charming them with her passion, coaxing them into following her orders. It is easy, _too_ easy, but she learned from the best. Even Decimus listens to her now, as she lies on her bed and tells him her desires, and he offers advice on her plans—but he always submits when she orders him to. (That Decimus would never have done such a thing matters little; she has surpassed him; _she_ is the master.)

Hawke will die, and Grace will rule; her lover relishes her beauty, her genius, her power; her smile curves her self-satisfied lips, sharp, and she laughs with pleasured delight.

 

 

**-.-.-**

 

_given time  
_

Sometimes Anders tries to make himself laugh, just to see if he still can. No one else bothers; they're all so damn worried about him that their forced jokes fall flat, sending up clouds of discomfort from the creaky floorboards of his sense of humor. And Hawke herself rarely jests, her sarcastic and biting wit wielded with the perfect timing to inflict the most damage, but not really _funny_. Even Isabela's innuendos have lately been tepid, usually followed by _are you_ sure _you're all right?_ and he can't bring himself to smile in response. He knows he looks like shit, and no one wants to help him forget.

His latest game is coming up with a name for the monster he's become, since it seems disingenuous not to have at least prepared some sort of pseudonym for when he's leader of the free mage world, something to give credit where credit's due. He started with Anders-Justice, but that really didn't solve the problem of the name being a mouthful. For the past half hour he's been trying out different options out loud, lying on his back on the hearth while Dog licks his hand.

"Anderstice? Andice? Andstice?"

"Enchantment," Sandal says, shaking his head.

Anders tips his head back to look crossly at the dwarf. "Andustice?" When Sandal's blank expression doesn't change, he says, "Or do you think I should switch it up? Something like Justers? Juders?"

"Enchantment!" Sandal exclaims, clapping his hands.

"Great," Anders says, turning his head to watch Dog patiently bathing his hand. "And what do you think of Juders?" Dog gives his palm an especially hard lick. "All right then," he says, sighing and closing his eyes. "Juders it is."

It's not very funny.

He casts desperately for another mindless mental occupation, something to engage the surface of his thoughts before everything underneath bubbles up and turns even the fire flickering on his face dark, but it's—

_Why are we here? Hawke is gone, and we are waiting for her to return. Why has she left without us? Why does she not bring us with her? She hasn't trusted us since we asked for her help with Elthina. We should never have involved her. She loves us. She hates us. No, never. Her love sustains our vengeance sustains have we forgotten the plight of our brethren? Do we fancy ourselves safe in this house? The templars are at the door, waiting for her to leave and not come back. She will come back. She left Dog. She left Dog to guard us. She left Dog to jail us._

He throws his arm over his eyes. Dog whines in concern. Hawke is off saving her brother from templars or blood mages or both—he's not sure why he wasn't allowed to come ( _we know why we weren't allowed to come; we know she won't let us out of the house again_ ), but he will be here when she returns, ready to strip the armor and help her into the bath and listen as she complains that every damn mage she meets outside the Circle—and hell, most of them within, it seems—thinks nothing of spilling their blood, of challenging her when victory is so clearly impossible. If every damn mage is a blood mage, she says, then maybe we _should_ have a Circle, and some days, after the most random encounters in Kirkwall's back alleys, he—

 _You_ , Justice says, and fresh agony blooms in his mind, the ripping of tight stitches in his soul as the spirit deliberately distances himself—but of course there is nowhere for him to go, and their body's limbs twitch like a puppet whose master cannot decide which strings to pull, painful contortions, and they want nothing more than to salve the wound—or at least Anders does; he's long past guessing if Justice feels pain, or even cares. _You_ , Justice says again, though surely the parts of them that are still together feel the ragged soul-bleed, _are letting an individual mortal distract you from our universal goals_.

 _Our_ goals, and their body sucks in a cool breath, _We are not_ , _must I remind you? No—please no—_

But Justice has learned that while the mortal world is immutable, the human mind is not, and in a moment Anders relives—his mother's eyes, never seen again, the fright of his sleepless night before his Harrowing, standing before his first demon and thinking _this is wrong_ and waking to a templar blade at his neck, the scent of grass snatched away as he's thrown back in the Circle, the long endless days in the his cell, carefree—not knowing when or if he might die—and so he leaves again, and again, but he is as trapped as a feral hound, throwing himself against the walls of his cage, exhausting himself, and from within his cage he watches as templars gather ten mages, a hundred mages, endless mages, force them into boats and wagons with their hands and feet bound, answering fire with fire—and all who resist are eventually burned, and the parents who resist die before their screaming children's eyes until that is all the children see as they sleep with eyes open, staring upon stone walls—

And for a moment he _hates_ , not the templars, but the spirit within him, the spirit that is himself, he hates himself for becoming the spirit who hates, but of course he has fed Justice with his hatred and in a moment the knife's edge of his mind _sings_ the high clear bright note of _vengeance_ —

"Enchantment?" Sandal asks, and he throws back his arm—clumsily, the stitches still fresh—and blinks up into the dwarf's concerned face.

"Yes," he says, calm, purposed, propping himself up on his elbows, ignoring Dog's whine, turning his head and seeing Hawke standing over her writing desk, reading a note. She must have stepped over him; he wonders if she even noticed. No matter. So long as she remains free, from the Circle and blood magic alike, she is serving her purpose; if she no longer sees him, that is no longer his concern. He loves her freedom; that is all.

"Trouble?" he asks, but she shakes her head and drops the note.

"I'm needed at the Gallows," she says, and she hesitates for a moment, then adds, "come on, boy," and turns on her heel and leaves again, Dog trotting happily in her wake.

Anders remembers those days, remembers leaving with her. Remembers she has left the note. It is short, and to the point, and he only sees one message: _It is time_.

 

 

**-.-.-**

 

_put my dreams away_

Merrill has neither world enough nor time to undo her mistakes, to unpay the cost of her ambition, her pride—though it did not seem so at the time, she cannot deny what Marethari became. For all she lectures Anders, she risked becoming like him—but _no_ , she was careful, she was safe, she had Hawke at her back, Hawke who protected her beyond what either of them thought she deserved, she isn't some careless apostate thinking some spirits are safe enough to trust with one's body and soul—if she _had_ become an abomination, it would have been through a failure of will, not sheer stupidity—

She cautions herself after these thoughts, for if pride is her great weakness she must guard against it in all forms. But it did not _seem_ like pride—she isn't proud like Hawke, strong and confident and capable (and careless, and stupid sometimes), or like Fenris, a survivor, slave no more, or even like Isabela, who hides her sense of self-worth behind so many jokes and casual encounters. She just wanted to help her people, to recover what was lost—knowledge of the Eluvians, yes, the secret places of the People's ancient past, whatever countless tomes may yet remain hidden beneath the earth. But she also sought Tamlen, wherever he might have gone; a cure for Mahariel (though from Anders and sweet Carver she learns her friend will never be cured); the clan's trust, after all their wary looks and whispered condemnation; Marethari's approval, _someone's_ approval, for anyone to look at her with respect in their eyes; and is that desire pride itself? She doesn't know. But she won't be mastered by it again.

Anders loses the battle with his spirit in a moment of magic, a deep and powerful blinding light that sets Kirkwall aflame, and in the sad-proud slump of his shoulders as he faces away from them she sees a little of herself—more of herself than she cares to find, but she must, for his fate is the threat all mages must face. And so she thinks about the approval he so desperately asked for, beneath his manifestos and his shouting, the desire to _change_ , to help his own, the mother he mentioned once, memories of a family lost—and _that_ she understands, too well—

The full horror of her clan's fate escapes in her weaker moments, when she tells herself they have gone back to Ferelden, left for the Arlathvhen Fenris mentioned, anywhere but Beyond. And then she reminds herself, not because she deserves the pain but because pretending is foolishness, that they are gone, at her friends' hands if not her own, gone for her mistakes—dead. Pretending they did not try to kill her—did not try, ironically, to end the line of Marethari's teaching, though she felt the same blind panic and sorrow and _understands_ —robs their deaths of meaning. They died for _her_ failings; they died for vengeance, as so many, many more will in the coming days. And she _understands_ , wanted to kill herself but thought it would be too easy—thought she deserved to be torn apart at their hands, rent in a way she cannot hope to achieve, hoped that in destroying the mirror she might call its taint upon herself, that the demon had lied, that everything had _truly_ been for naught—

But it wasn't, it _hadn't_ been, the demon's spells had worked—she had made progress, and it had seemed like the right thing to do, to keep progressing, and admitting that she was _wrong_ , that her plan would not have worked—if only Marethari had not been in the way—if only—if only she could take it all back—but she wouldn't, even though she smashed the mirror and swore she'd never look back. She has learned too much, and to take it all back would be to sacrifice _everything_ , Keeper and clan again, but also Isabela, and Carver, and Varric, and Fenris and Aveline, and Hawke, the years of her life, the home she has made, the friendships she's found, if not earned. And it wouldn't bring back Mahariel or Tamlen, or stop the Blight; and admitting her selfishness, the value she places upon her life and experiences above the clan's— _that_ is the bitterest pill; _that_ is her greatest shame.

She cannot take back, cannot look back, cannot imagine the world to be other than it is; and she thinks, looking at Anders, _knowing_ he is not all he seems, that some human part of him sees this as well, senses his mistake. And as she cannot have vengeance for her People without losing herself, so is there nothing—she calls that he be allowed to atone, given the same chance she had simply by virtue of being at Hawke's side—

But Anders has abandoned Hawke's side, and the knife cuts, deep and cruel, into his back; Hawke turns and walks away even as he falls to the ground, and they all stumble to follow, some confident, some staggered, each wondering what it means to leave a dying man—Merrill turns away. She cannot linger on what she might have been; she cannot find her People's past; the only path leads forward.

There is no looking back.

 

 

**-.-.-**

 

_while i lay dreaming_

Meredith walks the paths the Maker has set before her. Of this she had little doubt, long before his voice came to her, but now she knows she enjoys his blessings in their fullness. Though the world may burn around her, she shall be untouched, as _for she who trusts in the Maker, fire is her water_. Indeed, the Maker's light burning within her is far brighter than the hottest mage-fire, _for You are the fire at the heart of the world_. She knows no fear of death, and as she strides through the streets of her city, casting down abominations as she battles her way to the Gallows, she knows, she _knows_ that all must see her and believe, for the Maker is _her beacon and her shield, her foundation and her sword_.

She has spent years studying mages and demons, the Chant and the templar codes, and she looks carefully among the abominations even as her sword so easily seeks their blood, but none seem to be possessed by demons of fear. Her fellow templars dismiss such demons, worried more about the common demons of rage and desire, but she has seen what demons of fear have wrought. She sees her sister, hidden in a corner, rocking and praying, her quiet pretty voice singing, _guide me through the darkest nights_ , but the girl is afraid, afraid of discovery, afraid of causing harm, afraid of herself; she sees the fear in her sister's wide eyes even as her face is changing, her mouth open to scream but cackling with bone-chilling nightmare laughter instead, thin and high and scoring open the box containing Meredith's deepest terrors even as she runs, runs to find _help_ —

She pities her sister and her lack of faith. For Meredith believes if she _has faith,_ _unshaken by the darkness of the world, she shall know true peace_ ; Meredith knows _there is no darkness in the Maker's Light._ Her sister thus clearly did not have faith enough, could not see beyond the darkness, and neither can these mages. Yet none of these mages are afraid, or if they are, their fear is less than their rage, or their lust, or their pride. The pride abominations especially irk her; what _mage_ could think so highly of herself, when the Maker has so clearly humbled her?

The apostate at her side is a silent answer to her question, a powerful ally, but suspicious; she too seeks to bring order to the city, but if she hopes to rule, Meredith will stand before her, _blessed_. The Maker has spoken. As far as she knows, Hawke does not even _believe_ , let alone worship, and at the end of this day of reckoning there shall be judgment too for her, and for every mage whose life she spares. Meredith sees them all, prostrate and begging for mercy, shaking, scuttling into the shadows at Hawke's subtle nod; but the shadows shall not be dark for long, for _blessed are the righteous, the lights in the shadow. In their blood the Maker's will is written_.

She wishes she could have been that light for her sister. How little she knew, then. How little she understood. _As there is but one world, one life, one death, there is but one god, and He is our Maker._

Her sword sings with her, the Chant's refrains echoing in its crystal prisms higher and clearer than any Chantry sister's voice, and the Chant is her delight and her hope. She cares not that Orsino—blood traitor—opposes her, nor Cullen, nor Hawke, nor any of their companions; _my faith sustains me; I shall not fear the legion, should they set themselves against me_. The lyrium in her sword glows, sweetening the melody, giving her the flight of _a city with towers of gold, streets with music for cobblestones, and banners which flew without wind_ , and yes, yes, even the stones of the Gallows beneath her feet—touched as she alights to strike a killing blow—yes, they are singing too. The sound is too beautiful; she stops the world and commands them to _listen_ , listen to the Maker's song, listen as Andraste herself blesses them with her presence—

But despite the song Meredith is tiring, and Hawke's magic strikes blows against her armor, and then her flesh; but no matter, the sword sings, _those who oppose thee shall know the wrath of heaven_. She calls the red fire into statues, into herself, purified, strengthened to fight anew, _touch me with fire that I be cleansed, tell me I have sung to Your approval_ , and she has, she _knows_ she has sung well, for the fire fills her bones, and for a moment she wishes her sister could have known this joy—

And yet Hawke persists, and Meredith is only one against their many—she feels doubt try to creep into her mind but _no_ , no, she is not alone, she has the Maker, her guide, her strength, and she _shall weather the storm, she_ shall _endure_ , and her sword cries for the blood of the guilty but the magic, _accursed ones_ , bombards her, lightning and hail, and there are swords and shields on all sides and no, _no_ —

She casts all her might into her sword, the strength of her belief and her conviction and her _knowledge_ thrown into the wild call of its song, screams for the Maker with every ounce of breath in her body—she _will. not. falter._ , and the song screams with her—

But no—it is splintering—

It _burns_ , the song, the Chant, the beautiful music she's made for the Maker, _burns_ , and this cannot be right, _hear my cry seat me by Your side in death make me one within Your glory_ , and everything is light and _unquenchable flame all-consuming_ and sharp stabbing pain and living stone _never satisfied_

_What you have created, no one can tear asunder,  
and nothing that He has wrought shall be lost._

 

 

**-.-.-**

 

_do you wish you were_

The viscount's throne is hard and unyielding, and many hard and unyielding judgments pass down from its heights. Carver stays long enough to see his sister installed—irony of ironies, an Amell mage wearing the Kirkwall coronet—and then departs for the Wardens. Fenris does not even last that long—he simply informs Hawke that while she may have proven herself, many more mages will turn to blood in the days to come, and he will hunt them down. She cannot blame him; she would go too, if Kirkwall did not need her. Starkhaven needs Sebastian, and so after he obtains her promise of aid—though she is careful not to say how much—he leaves as well. But the others stay; Kirkwall is in some turmoil, yes, but Hawke wastes no time in putting it to rights; not so much has changed.

"I've got a ship," Isabela announces.

The viscount of Kirkwall looks up from the note she's reading, looks down from her throne. "I thought you said you didn't want one."

"I said I was glad I stayed."

"And now you're not?"

"Now I have a ship," she counters.

The silence stretches in the great hall, various courtiers pausing their conversations to eavesdrop on this one. Hawke cares little for their political machinations, for _finally_ everyone acknowledges that none are her match and thus none will ever seek to challenge her authority. She looks long and hard at Isabela—has she always been so hard? she remembers a time she was soft under the pirate's touch—and says, "I thought you would stay."

"Not forever," the pirate says, and Hawke sees in her eyes a wariness, a— _concern_ , as if she thinks she may not be allowed to leave for reasons best left unspoken. Nonsense, but it stings, and Hawke suddenly does not care.

"Smooth sailings, then," she says, and settles back against the throne, lifting the note again.

Isabela waits a moment more, and Hawke absurdly hopes—but the pirate merely flourishes a bow before slipping out of the throne room, never turning her back to the viscount—as per the viscount's general requests for throne room etiquette, and yet the concern—the _reasons_ —linger, until Hawke puts them away and returns to her work.

Merrill leaves with only a note, something about the Veil being thin—and of course it is, but Hawke is not threatened by the weakness of others, not anymore—and hoping to find clan, a more hospitable alienage, or perhaps another damned mirror; she doesn't know and she's gone and Hawke doesn't have to care, a relief when the city has so many more cares, each of them her top priority. She handles the mages and templars personally, the mutually cautious relationship she shares with the new Knight-Commander built on an unspoken (for no one bothers to speak their true minds, not to a political leader, no matter how immune to politics) memory of a city saved with her help, on the understanding that she knows the mages' plight better than any. Her counsel does not stop the blood mages, but she thinks it lessens their numbers; of course, many have simply left the city, seeking more broken Circles, but they are beyond her concern. And she has many concerns; when the mages and templars are handled there's always the matter of local crime, of gangs lurking the streets of High, Low, and Darktown alike, though not all agree with her method of handling them—

"I wish you'd let me do my job," Aveline says. This conversation takes place in the viscount's private office; Aveline _is_ susceptible to politics, and too polite for public confrontation besides.

"You do your job very well," Hawke says, looking down at the scatter of papers on her desk and wondering how best to organize them. "I merely supplement your work."

"Four patrols in the last _week_ , Hawke. Viscount," she corrects herself, when Hawke glances up from the desk, but then something steels in her voice. "Hawke, my men and women are perfectly capable of handling a few bandits. They don't like having to worry about injuring their viscount in the process."

"Then call them off," Hawke says, making a few stacks, financial here, spy reports there (Merrill, last seen wandering the Wounded Coast, but not an abomination). "Focus your men on Hightown, and I'll handle Darktown."

"That's too many men and too few patrols."

"Then let some of them go."

" _Hawke_ ," Aveline sighs. "These are good men, good people, with families. I can't fire them because the viscount doesn't know how to delegate."

"I'm keeping the city safe," Hawke says, refusing to look up from her desk, hardening her tone. "There must be order."

"You think that's not my goal too?" Aveline says, and she steps forward to the desk and waits until Hawke finally meets her gaze. "Have I not given years of my life to this? Hawke," she pleads, "let me _help_ you."

The Guard are capable and competent under Aveline, this much is true; but the longer Hawke sits on her throne the more she learns of corruption, of the tiny ways in which her citizens betray their city's trust. Not even Aveline, in all her sturdy glory, can fully guarantee her Guard's sterling reputation.

Aveline seems to see this in her eyes, and something about her slumps, saddened—and then she draws back her shoulders and says, "In that case, I tender my resignation, effective immediately."

"Denied," Hawke says, just as immediate. Aveline doesn't budge, and Hawke—is concerned. "Why on earth would you think I would accept?"

Aveline draws in a breath, holds onto it tight, then simply says, "I'm having a baby."

Hawke stares at her, a thousand questions gathering in her mind, the first being, _since when?_ and the second being, _why didn't you tell me?_ but she finds she doesn't want to know the answer. Instead she says, "Congratulations."

"Thank you," Aveline says graciously. "Donnic and I have discussed it, and we don't want to raise our family in Kirkwall if we can help it."

"But Donnic's from Kirkwall," Hawke says, feeling foolish even as she protests—and she hasn't felt foolish in a long, long time. "And you said yourself that Kirkwall is your home."

"That's true," Aveline says, turning her head to look out the window behind the desk. "But it's no place to raise a family."

The silence waits for Hawke to decide if she means _never was_ or _no longer is_ ; she can't make up her mind. "So you're leaving."

"Soon," Aveline says.

"When?"

"Soon," she repeats, looking back to her.

Hawke's eyes narrow unconsciously. "Where are you going?"

"Away," she says, almost dreamily, and Hawke doesn't know this Aveline standing before her, this Aveline who is choosing to run.

"Ferelden?" she asks, harshly.

"Perhaps," Aveline says, and Hawke realizes—she really isn't going to say. Like Isabela wouldn't say, like Merrill didn't say.

"Fine," Hawke says, returning to the papers on her desk, stacking them with perhaps more force than usual—but all within her control. "Have a safe voyage."

"Thank you." Aveline stands watching her for a moment, but Hawke won't look—"Hawke," she says, and Hawke looks up mid-stack, "be well."

"I will," she says, and Aveline sighs, but Hawke pretends not to hear it over the sound of rustling papers; and after a moment, Aveline turns around, and Aveline is gone, too.

Hawke realizes, dimly, over the coming weeks, as she interviews various candidates to be Aveline's successor—none of whom will ever be worthy of the title, though a few are at least humble enough to admit it—that she'd assumed Aveline's entire being revolved around the Guard; it was her job, and her husband shared her job, and the thought that she would have dreams and aspirations beyond it—a _life_ beyond it, a family to look forward to—and what does Hawke have?

Kirkwall, of course. And at least Varric is still at the Hanged Man, should she ever need to hear her exploits recounted—and then one day Isabela's ship sails into the docks and one night it sails out, and Varric sails with it, and Hawke has Kirkwall, and a throne.

Anders, of course, is dead.

And she throws herself into her work, into keeping the peace, into keeping the Circle together without becoming—without allowing more blood mages, into patrolling the streets, into managing squabbling nobles, into managing trade agreements and budgetary concerns, anything, everything to keep her working long into the night, until her fingers wear thin, her eyes red, her cheeks gaunt—and it is still not enough. She is horrified to discover that mages use her name as a rallying cry against the templars across Thedas, and no matter how hard she tries she cannot keep the Chantry from coming apart in Val Royeaux. And her mages, whom she's worked so hard to pacify, to understand, to force to learn the steel necessary to avoid temptation— _her_ mages turn on the templars again, and gangs of blood mages run the streets, and while her supply of mana is nearly endless, while she can stop a dozen men in their tracks with a single thought and kill them with the next— _it is still not enough_.

And so, one morning, Seneschal Bran throws open the doors to the throne room to begin the court, calling, "Viscount!"—for everyone knows the viscount never sleeps—but the room is dark, the windows curtained, the throne—empty.

She leaves no note.


	3. to the bottom of the river

_start running_

A war whispers in Orlais, but it is a fledgling thing, so the masked nobles pay it no mind and continue with their parlor games, far more interested in the speeches of Gaspard de Chalons than in the problems of a backwater city like Kirkwall.

Morrigan wears no mask—an acquiescence to the Empress's commands, but also a display of careless confidence—and advises the Empress to make preparations.

" _Contre quoi_?" Celene asks, reading a summary of Gaspard's latest accusations.

"I don't know," Morrigan says. They are in the privacy of Celene's bedchambers, for the walls of the bedchambers are thick, but the windows big enough for a bird—and if Celene has acquired a pet crow, the worst gossip will be that she's brought in the Antivans. No one suspects—for if they do, Morrigan has them killed—that she has accepted the counsel and aid of a Witch of the Wilds. Morrigan herself was surprised at the acceptance; offering herself to the Empress had been a move of desperation, an attempt to gain access to the highest levels of Thedas so that in the case of—of a Circle being overthrown, a Grand Cleric murdered, she might know all there is to know.

She does not visit in person often—her research with the Eluvians has made some short-range communication spells possible—but this is troubling enough to warrant the trip. Her son is nearly old enough to be left alone for the duration of the journey; she is loath to force him to grow up too quickly, but then that was never in her hands.

"Then what would you have me do?" Celene asks, examining her face in one of the many mirrors. Morrigan's magic may hide the true weight of age and years spent on the throne, but she has no spells to help the Empress produce an heir; even her own son had required a father. "They have sent Seekers to investigate Elthina's death, and templars to subdue the Circle. They say the mage who did it is dead at the viscount's hand. What more can be done?"

"There will be more mages," Morrigan says, and though she has heard the rumors—that the mage responsible was an abomination—she cannot shake the feeling that Flemeth—but her mother, wherever she is, has not shown her face in years. "The Circles will try to rebel."

"That is a matter for the Chantry," Celene says. "I have an empire to attend to."

"They say the mage knew the Warden," she says. "Perhaps if she were found, she could provide insight to his motives."

"You and the Nightingale," Celene says, shaking her head. "I do not think it will be as bad as you fear. The mages have rebelled before."

And Morrigan has no proof, and so she reinforces the glamours on the Empress's skin and shifts into her crow form and takes her leave by taking wing. Once outside, she circles the White Spire for good measure, but the templars leaning out the windows on the higher floors are relaxed, unsuspecting—though whether through ignorance or assurance, she does not know. The rest of the city sprawls beneath her, so embroiled in its own self-made intrigues—so convinced of its invulnerability to outward attack that to lose a hundred lives for a game seems a trifling matter. They will need all their strength, and they whittle it away from within; she beats her wings, and leaves the city behind in disgust.

She is no advocate of the Circle, but she is no fool; Kirkwall's chaos will ripple throughout the land, not in the least because it is exactly the sort of chaos that breeds tyrants, those willing to do whatever is necessary to achieve their goals, and she has no doubt of her mother's use for tyrants. The war will not remain between mages and templars; the common folk will lie dead in their wake, and their common rulers will cry outrage and involve their armies, and the blood mages will turn brother against brother, and the mages who are simply trying to be free will be caught and killed, for the common folk cannot tell the difference. She is— _annoyed_ , sharply so, and she knows the annoyance covers her anxiety; she still does not fully understand her son's destiny, and until she does he will risk being a mere pawn in the hands of those who do not understand and will not care.

And what will be the _point_? She has seen what cornered mages will do—mages who have read snatches of half-destroyed rituals, who have no real sense of what they're doing but are desperate enough to try it—most blood mages at least know the cost of their actions, and simply choose to ignore them; cornered mages spill their blood and are immediately possessed. And what will be the result of these possessions? A hundred thousand spirits crossing—weakening—enough mages in one place, enough blood shed—

A tear in the Veil. The sort of tear that allowed the magisters to walk into the Fade, if one believes the tales; the sort of tear to allow one to walk into the Fade and—beyond.

Morrigan curses and flies faster, seeking the quiet isolation of the woods where she's hidden her son, where he waits, unsuspecting—but not for long. And yet how can she prepare him for this? She doesn't know what's worse: the wanton death and destruction the war will bring, or the irony that its end will not be a deliberate act—no, it will be the accumulation of a thousand moments brought together—that stupid, _irresponsible_ mages making rash decisions when backed into corners are going to doom them all.

Morrigan flies, death riding on her wings.

 

 

**-.-.-**

 

_save my soul_

Jowan's hands shake constantly, now, and the whispers are growing worse. His dreams are always lit with the dark red glow of light through sluggish blood, and he knows that soon the demons will stop bothering with dreams, that soon they will approach him directly. He won't listen—he learned his lesson, has learned it a thousand times over and still they keep teaching him the limits of his own strength. He _can't_ listen, or he will walk those paths again. In his dreams the taste of blood is sweet, though he knows it's a lie, but the sense of _power_ —but no. He knows no simple cut can bring that feeling back—

_a simple and horrible thing, the extent of his untested power, the sheer_ rush _of the strength, the giddy excitement of knowing he can do anything, can reach into the Fade itself_

—and there's hardly a place on his hands that isn't already scarred. His palms can barely feel the hilt of a knife or the heft of a staff, so deeply has he scored them. If they would let him have a staff, which of course they don't. They don't allow him anything in solitary confinement; one of the templars mentions that the last occupant had a cat, but that was years ago, and anyway Jowan thinks he is allergic to cats. He doesn't know why they allow him to live.

He wishes they would make him Tranquil.

To be Tranquil would be to lose his friends, to lose Lily—not the memory of them, but the _feeling_ of it—but feelings are dangerous, and wishing only brings the demons. He wishes he had let them make him Tranquil in the first place. If he were Tranquil he could at least _do_ something—not that he'd care about not doing anything, not that boredom is something a Tranquil understands, but at least the fear would be gone. He is tired of the fear. His hands will not stop shaking. And in his dreams he cannot stop remembering, with all the force of—

_he does not know, does not understand, how or why or even_ if _the arlessa loves him, but she comes to him anyway, and he had hardly dared to hope that another woman would ever look his way, would look past the thin white stripes on his body, would touch them without question, without guessing, would let him touch her in return_

—and that body he adored, the mother of the boy he could almost have called son, if the arl had had the decency to die—he boiled her blood at her behest, summoned it forth from every pore and orifice and watched as it burst from her, listened to her scream and her pain and—and _liked_ it, his horror and his grief subsumed, however briefly, to the all-consuming _power_ of the magic coursing not only through his soul but also his veins, the veins of everyone standing before him. And he knew that he could _use them all_ and these are his dreams, the demons taunting him with his lusts, granting the tantalizing memory of the power only to remind him of its terrible, terrible cost. He curls within himself, puts his hands over his ears, but within his dreams his mind is an open book and the demons have it memorized.

He tries not to sleep. His hands shake.

And this is despair, the despair Lily tried to warn him of so long ago— _have hope, my love, for we are the Maker's children and walk in His light_ —but Aeonar is dark and the Circle is cold, and all Isolde's prayers could not save her from pain or her son from his power. If the Maker is listening—if the Maker was ever listening—He clearly does not care; if this is how He treats his children, cursing them with magic, Jowan would rather be an orphan. He has been abandoned by one father already; refusing the empty promises of another is not so hard.

"Are you sure?" Irving says, his voice as gravely as it as always been, though the rocks are smaller, as the templars prepare the lyrium and stoke the fire. "You put forth a great deal of effort to avoid this, once."

"I know," he says, trembling with—fear? Excitement? His heart, trying to gather as many emotions as it possibly can—but none of them will matter soon. "I was wrong."

Irving looks sad, but soon he won't understand that; he trembles as the templars recite the Chant, as he meets Greagoir's stony gaze—the Knight-Commander has always wanted this; he wishes he could apologize for resisting. And then—there is magic, and the sweet song of lyrium and the _fire_ of lyrium as they press the brand into his skin into his _soul_ , and he cries, he cries _no_ —

 

Jowan's hands are steady as he measures out the correct amount of lyrium to enchant a staff. Another apprentice will face her Harrowing tonight, and should she live, this fresh-hewn wood, humming with magic, will be hers, laced with just enough power to respond to her touch. Jowan never underwent his Harrowing; he does not know what it involves. If this apprentice does not receive this staff, another will. He does not know and does not care. It will be used properly, or it won't; it will be treated as carefully as it was made, or it won't; what is, is, and what will be, will be. He does not care. His hands are steady, and he does not dream.

_And all was silent in prayer and thanks_.

 

 

**-.-.-**

 

_help me understand_

The elvhen praised the Creators for years on end; if it were not for the changing of the seasons, the birth of children, the life and death of other creatures, they might not have ever noticed the passage of time. Their hunters walked in Andruil's steps, and their crafters followed June's designs. Their priests devoted the eternity of their waking hours to praising Elgar'nan, to asking for Mythal's protection; and when their hahren entered uthenera, they spoke with Falon'Din himself. Sylaise tended their fires, and Dirthamen kept their lore; they were the Creators' children, brothers, sisters, _kin_ , and their clan was blessed, their worship endless.

And yet Fen'Harel came, and locked the Creators away, and the shemlen came, and brought the quickening with them. And without their guide the uthenera were lost, and without their father Arlathan was lost, and without their mother the People were scattered, orphaned and helpless against the shemlen's insistence that Time could not be stopped.

 

The first Dreamers taught their people of the dragons-who-slumbered, first turned them to the worship of something beyond their own kin—to the worship of something greater than themselves, to gods they saw not and power they could not understand. These gods ruled in darkness, in secret, speaking only to those with the Gift. Those who could not hear protested, but the Gift gave power over the heavens and the earth that could not be denied, and so the people turned together to creating the world the dragons desired. In silence, they moved; at night, they attacked; with fire, they conquered; with slaves, they built their cities. They worshiped the mystery of their gods, almighty and unseen; they devoted their finest crafts, their most beautiful creations to the praise of their most beautiful creators; and in their adoration, they were free.

But their gods proved untrue, and the people's cries for power fell upon deaf ears; but still they worshipped, and still they obeyed, until they saw Dumat himself standing upon the Blighted plains and unleashing his sickly silent poison upon his people. And even then, they persisted, crying for mercy; and even then, they died.

 

The dwarves worship the Stone. It has no power beyond what they provide it; in this way, they worship themselves. Their Paragons have only done them good; their Stone has never caused them harm. In this way they are moderately successful; in this way they are helpless against the world beyond and the gods it contains. The first Blight exposes this weakness, and the dwarves do not recover. Like the elves, the sins of humans are their downfall; unlike the elves, they may hide themselves away, and they do. The Stone is no longer safe, and so they shut themselves in their cities and continue the work of strengthening their weakened lines; but it will never be enough.

 

Andraste sang, and an unknown god responded. Her people were in desperate need of a god; their masters' gods were cruel and treacherous, while Andraste's was merely disappointed. She did not understand, at first, the depths of His disappointment, nor the depths of His desire; she promised herself, thinking that a just god would not force a married woman to keep such a vow, but in that promise she was transformed, and the little girl who had praised a creator for the flowers in the field became a woman on fire, alight with knowledge and power and passion and— _love_. She saw her husband's jealousy, but she could not undo the call of her heart, for she loved him and her sons and their clan, but she loved too the people against whom they marched, the people who had lost all faith in anything, the blades of grass and the leaves on the trees; she loved the _world_ , as much as she loved the Maker, and she desired nothing more than that her loves should be one.

But Maferath didn't know, or understand, or trust when his lovestruck wife said the world would be better, that giving glory to the Maker was the only way to achieve their victory. His victories were not measured in converted souls but captured ones, in lands won and homage given, and his wife kept giving them away. They are my subjects, he said; and she turned her beautiful fiery eyes upon him and said, _they are the Work of our Maker's Hands_. Maferath did not care; Maferath thought that, if his wife were so concerned with some god's hands, then he would give her what she wished; and in so doing, he satisfied the wishes of the Imperium and his own heart as well. He would live to regret it, but not before he lived to see his wife burn—but of course she burned; the Maker's light was unquenchable flame, and it had consumed her long ago. By her death empires would rise and fall; in her name many would live and many more die; with her intercession, some would be saved; but in her burning, _all_ should hope.

 

For Andraste lives, they say, the Bride of the Maker, forever at his side. Death is not an ending.

 

 

**-.-.-**

 

_meet me in the middle of the air_

The dead are walking.

The war has come, and everywhere the templars have been there are Tranquil or dead, but the mages follow in their footsteps and undo their work. Some are patient, working with each individual Tranquil to coax forth a spirit to save them; but others have simply torn spirits from the Fade and bound them, offering them Tranquil as a respite from their boxes or keys or belt buckles or boots. And sometimes these reversals work, and sometimes the spirit is greedy—but they are careful to avoid the demons; a spirit of compassion is far more amenable to traveling in an inanimate object than a demon of rage. And if they possess their subjects—their powers are available, and at least the bodies are living. There are more mages than templars, but more angry commonfolk than either; both sides need all the bodies they can find. The templars use the Tranquil. The mages use the dead.

For nine ages the Chantry has proscribed the burning of corpses, reserving burial for the unholy, and so it is the graves of criminals and apostates that open, bodies left to rot in the sun that are revived, and sometimes if a mage is especially lucky they will summon forth a revenant or an arcane horror—harder to master, but a living mage with blood at her disposal has power that even the demons will respect. They raid libraries, looking for records of graves and magehunts alike, searching for ways to summon more spirits at once, to control the horde they've created. And not every spirit finds a host—shades plague the countrysides, the quiet villages where no mage has been seen in years suddenly suffering from the lashings-out of a spirit as lost and frightened as they are.

For life is what tempts every spirit, demon or no, and the mages trawl the Fade, using their blood to walks its paths in search of spirits willing to follow them across the Veil. Never before have lucid mages appeared in the Fade in such numbers—some of the demons and spirits see the threat, master their cravings for mortality and drive the intruders from their domains; but many more choose to follow, not only demons, but spirits seeking to aid those who would end this war. But their traffic treads across the Veil too, and its thin fibers begin to fray—not only in Kirkwall, or the White Spire, but throughout the burning world.

And the demons and spirits find themselves in mortal corpses, dead and dim and decaying, and this is not _life_ , not the life they were promised, for these bodies have only the barest imprints of memory, of taste and touch and sound and feeling; but they are trapped, doomed to whatever purpose their master decides, and many of them learn mortality upon the battlefield, wielding rusty weapons or cut down before they comprehend what is happening. But some do not, and the spirits who survive— _change_.

Anders had spoken of it, tried to explain what he thought Justice became, but no one fighting this war knew him to listen; he is their banner, their rallying cry, but no one knows who he was. And the war continues, templars hunting mages hunting templars, battles pitched in the mud of empty graveyards, the treacherous yawning pits waiting to receive their bounty back again, and the spirits who wanted— _not this_ —serve to slow the templars long enough for the mages to cast their spells, and the sky rains fire and ice and the earth seeps blood and pestilence until the land is as Blighted as though a hundred thousand darkspawn trampled through—

—and beneath the earth, the darkspawn continue their search—

and those who seek solutions, who seek the peace Anders denied, or at least an _ending_ , watch the world and think— _this cannot hold_.

**-.-**

Finally, _finally_ , she receives a clue, but it is not the one she wished; she is making supper, of all things, when her son looks up from the book she gave him to keep him quiet and says, "Flemeth came and spoke to me."

Morrigan stills her hands, for her first reaction is to cast a spell of shielding, as far and wide as her power can reach, but that would be a foolish waste of her powers if her mother is indeed so close. "Oh?" she says carefully, returning to her work.

"She said she was your mother," he says. "I think she turned into a dragon."

"A likely thing," she says without a trace of her usual sarcasm. "Did she say what she wanted?"

"No," he says, then, "wait, yes," as his child's mind remembers the conversation—a child's mind, no great power, a _child_ , and her heart aches in ways she had not known were possible. "She wanted to teach me power."

"Did she," Morrigan says, striving to keep her voice still. "What power was that?"

"Over death," he says, slowly, the words unfamiliar to him. "She said that all things die, but she doesn't, and I don't have to. But, Mother," he says, "didn't I die before?"

She looks at her son, at his brow furrowing with confusion, his eyes trusting her to answer him. "Why do you say that?" she asks.

"I don't know," he says. "It's a thing that I did one time."

She does not know—did he feel the death of his tainted body? Was an archdemon itself dead, a living thing cast into a dead sleep? Did the cleansing of the taint feel like death? She has heard that children often claim to remember things-that-were or things-that-will-be, and heard it dismissed as nonsense; she wishes she could do the same with her child.

But now Flemeth has revealed part of her quest—and revealed that she still moves within the world—and the question remains—"And did you agree to let her teach you?"

"No," he says, immediately. "She said she wouldn't help me save you too."

Morrigan stares at him. She has grown used to the fears and anxieties of motherhood; once overwhelming in their newness, she has tamed them so that she may focus, feels their aches and joys with a careful understanding that nothing she does will stop them and so it is best to let them pass, paying as little mind as possible. Her son is old enough to feed and dress himself, to wander the tiny patch of peace she has found for them, to ask questions and understand the answers; he is his own person, and within their abode she has little to worry about—but his words stir within her, calling to mind a time and place where so many years ago—and yet not so long, a child's lifetime—another named her _friend_ , and she was unquestionably, irrevocably changed.

"Well," she says after a moment, the moment it takes to find her voice again, "thank you for that."

"You're welcome," he says, for she's taught him politeness, if nothing else. She snorts—but fondly, and her son, who knows her far better than she likes to think, smiles back.

She has spent so many years on wondering what her son must do, and what she must do to protect him, to guide him to his destiny—she never thought that _he_ would save _her_. But he has defied Flemeth, no matter how small the test may have been; and her young undying son may yet challenge the old Witch—

And he may yet win.

 

 

**-.-.-**

 

_nothing satisfies me_

Morrigan thinks her child will save the world; what she fails to understand is that this world is already lost, its own denizens the cause of its unmaking. Mortals need precious little encouragement to wreak their own destruction; it really is quite amusing to step back and watch them annihilate themselves according to their own designs. It matters so little, in the grand scheme, _how_ they go, and in my years of waiting I have seen so many different versions of the collapsing empire, the corrupted leader, the betrayed friendship—they are endlessly inventive, and while the themes are always the same each mortal is unique. The Maker outdid himself, really.

But all that will soon matter very little—surprisingly soon, for even though I have watched for its coming for, oh, eons—well, when one gets used to the waiting, action is quite the change. And it is a shame, to see it ending, for it held so many things of beauty—but that's not my domain, and after all: without an ending, there can be no peace.

As for the boy—he loves his mother, a weakness I am surprised she taught him. It is not one from which she herself suffers, for if she did, she might think to _ask_ me my plans, rather than oppose them on principle, and that wouldn't do. And he is young, and may be taught to love others—or not to; and he is so much _more_ than a boy, and once he realizes it I doubt a mother's love will be enough to stop him.

Then again, I have been wrong before.

Still, the mortals are at war, and every drawn sword draws the world nearer to the abyss; they see only the darkness, but I know that on the other side there will be—light. The only question that remains is who will claim it, and I am occupied with ensuring the answer. Let Morrigan continue to fret; it will sharpen her mind and strengthen her resolve, and she will need to be at her best when she comes for me. As for the others—well. I have done what I can to set them upon their paths; whether they will be brave enough to pursue me into the dark is their own choice.

And you? Let the question linger; let it toy with your fears; and when you know your heart's desire, return, and I will teach you what you need to know.

Follow me, across the Veil and the Fade and all the stars in the sky, and see if forgiveness awaits. And if not…

Well. You will know what you must do.

 

 

 

_here lies the abyss, the well of all souls;_  
 _from these emerald waters doth life  
_

_begin_

_anew._

  
_  
_fin.


End file.
